The Emmaus Dialogues: Act II Scene 4 “Ear Pollution” – draft 4.8

Butterfly and hummingbird

(Another short sound bite extracted  from a scene from a play  that is in the works.)

 (Setting: It is a new day, the sun is peaking over the horizon and almost as fast as the one beat of a heart all the darkness that filled the night has been transformed. The illumination by that great mystical star from heaven allows the pilgrims to experience the sacredness of colors of the trees and flowers. Birds sing in simple melodious delight. The wisp of the winds creates a “swooshing whisper” as if to pass on some great secret. The rippling of the stream is mantra to the dawn. The crickets’ nocturnal chorus fades with the warming daylight and the monarch and hummingbird pass the time in silence.)

.....Pilgrim 1: Music has a purpose you know. I don’t understand it but the creation of a piece of music has a mysterious mystical origin. Where do you think composers and songwriters get their ideas for creating a particular piece of music? A songwriter friend of mine says he has no idea where he gets the musical notes and the lyrics for his songs. It all just seems to pour out when he begins to compose the song. There seems to be some consecrated spark that fuels the flame that burns within the hearts and souls of these artists and finds it’s escape through a channel we call music.

Pilgrim 2: What?

Pilgrim 1: That unknown beatific source is that same source that had given the birds an intuitive desire to sing as well as creating the origins of the science that when orchestrated properly the wind can be heard  brushing the leaves and the waves sing softly and sweetly kissing the sand on a deserted beach..

Pilgrim 2: Oh come on now where are you going with this? All I was doing was walking, talking and listening to some music.

Pilgrim 1: Remember that the word “inspire” has it’s origins from the Latin “inspirare” which in turn means “breathe into” and there is this ineffable force that somehow breathes into everything and everyone nourishing their spark of life residing within them. As you remember your Latin the term vocation comes from “vocare” which is to listen to that voice within .There is that secret voice that calls some to be composers – songwriters and they create sounds and sometimes words that in turn blesses those who in turn open their hearts to hear the music .

Admittedly some music sounds as though it has origins that are not divine but that are a matter for another exchange. But isn’t it uncanny how some songs can lift our spirits, some console us, some reflect exactly what we are feeling, some grab us and suddenly our whole bodies respond by holding onto one we love and sharing the joy with movements called a dance….do you think all of that is an accidental coincidence? Some songs invigorate our weak spirits and nourish us with an energy we never thought we had to fight all injustice. What about the lyrics of some songs that say exactly what is written on your heart or blesses you just at the moment you require redemption or consolive illumination, do you think those lyrics found your soul by chance?

Pilgrim 2: OK, you are losing me completely now.

Pilgrim 1:  I heard this famous singer once describe how music has become a form of “ear pollution.” In some cases music has become a tool to help drown out the noise of the world. I guess there is a value in that at times. In other cases it has become an economic channel with its only purpose is to fill someone’s off shore accounts and have no grace-filled origins. Do the truly great gifted artists stop painting or sculpting if they are poor? Do you really think the masters of creating or performing music, or even those who write poetry or great literature are only motivated by the desire for attaining great wealth by using their gifts?

Music is sacramental and when one’s listening to music the originating gift becomes self-perpetuating …as long as there are ears and hearts to be present to what they hear. 

Pilgrim 2 returned the ear-buds back in his ears, he clicks on his MP3 player, adjusts the volume to loud and responds

Pilgrim 2: OK, we can continue another time? So excuse me “Professor IknowsomuchIwanttotellsomebody” as I get back to my gift and get blessed.

.....

The following music videos may not be available on some smart phones or iPads
but here are their you tube links...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnCtHwMAfD8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtrOYsNCPmg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCxZ82Cwg9I

http://video.pbs.org/video/2365086944/

http://video.pbs.org/video/2365087686/

amdg

Copyright 2013 JF Sobecki LLC

Exit Zero : A Cape May Prayer

As if summoned by seagulls, we come back to the beach

where we can cast off the shoes and our everyday cares

tell time by the tides and live in the moment

Our search for shells an echo of childhood

and the surf's refrain is music remembered

-     author unknown

What is that voice, that essence, that power

that calls to wayward wandering sailor pilgrims?

What is the source of their uncontrolled

yearning to travel to that safe harbor?

What is this place, this home of serenity and solitude,

where the voice of God becomes the wind itself

that blows the sand and salt air and provides lift for coasting gulls and puffs the sails of all that venture to the great sea?

What is this place that finds a way to nourish equally all

the spirits who are present ?

What is this place where both the sunrise and sunsets

are majestic providing immediate consolation

to each heart that opens itself  to the horizon?

What is this lighthouse that can be seen by any eyes

of searching seafarers who dare to see?

Or, what is this lifeboat always ready for any swimmer who struggles with the tides that come in and go out ?

What is this place that is free from the hurricanes

and storms regardless of their source or nature?

Then what of those century old Victorian homes that house the souls

of the first  wanderers and respite seekers?

How is it that in this place the sound of the surf magically

effortlessly soothes the psyche and the sand on the beach relieves

the burden of the wearied travelers?

It is said that essence of joy and hope reside in this place.

Nourishment, revitalization, re-energizing, relief, inspiration,

relaxation and redemption are just a few of the gifts

thriving in this perpetual retreat that has always been and always will be.This place of origin and endings, this source of all peace

and love…. The alpha and omega.

Nature’s cathedral created on a blank canvas
by the master artist of artists,
sacred space, holy ground….just this
side of paradise ...

They call it Exit O….

                                               
                You tube - These are the days of the endless summer- Van Morrison
     May not play on some smart phones or watch in vimeo click this link http://vimeo.com/2925

 
                                                              Photos from John Sobecki

                          Paintings from Patricia Rainey Studios http://www.patriciaraineystudios.com/

amdg

Well it's All right - 5th Annivesary Second Chance Dance !

WARNING : FOR MATURE READERS ONLY!   ALSO...MUSIC VIDEOS MAY NOT PLAY ON ALL "SMART " PHONES!

“ Well it’s all right , even if your old an gray

Well  its’ all right , you still got something to say…

Well  it’s all right , even if the sun don’t shine

Well  it’s all right , we’re goin’ to the end of the line!”

So as the summer slowly began to slip away he sat again like most mornings in meditative musing. Those mystical constellations that told stories and guided his vessel in the heavens slowly faded as the sun of the new day burned away the mist that had hung like a worn halo above the tree line. He sat, stared silently and wondered. That cool ocean breeze, the voice of the new season waiting just around the corner whispered .

“Another anniversary at hand…Five years”

The day memorializing Ignatius and his exercises was five years since the pilgrim receiving the great sacrament of healing by one of the companions on the eve of the great repairing of his heart. That moment, that day was remembered as the commencement of the odyssey of the second chance, the new chapter…setting of the new course.

The mystical voice continued

“What is the purpose of remembering?” Why celebrate anniversaries ? Is it all about recollection or recapturing that semi-historic moment or is it refueling, a re commitment? Is it all of the above? Celebrations, solemn remembrances of holy events, victories, losses , births , weddings and graduations…what does it all mean? When the anniversary commemoration is finished …then what?”

The pilgrim remembered how he had gotten diverted on occasion over the years . If he were a golfer one would say that he had lost his swing. If he was a singer or writer another might suggest that every once in a while he had lost his voice.  Just about 43,000 hours ago, give or take a few minutes, he believed that he was given a great gift transforming into a metanoia that rekindled his true spirit . So on this memorial day his  grateful requital would be to show his indebtedness by allowing his authentic voice to raise up.

                                       

Sky cleared up, day turned to bright

Closing both eyes now the head filled with light

Hard to remember what a state I was in

Instant amnesia

Yang to the Yin.

All I got to do is to love you

All I got to be is, be happy

All it's got to take is some warmth to make it

Blow Away, Blow Away, Blow Away.

Wind blew in, cloud was dispersed

Rainbows appearing, the pressures were burst

Breezes a-singing, now feeling good

The moment had passed

                                        Like I knew that it should.

“Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will,
 All I have and call my own.

You have given all to me.
 To you, Lord, I return it.

Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
 Give me only your love and your grace,
 that is enough for me.”

-       Ignatius Loyola

amdg

July 4, 2013 : Freedom Prayer

                             (The Charles River with a view of Boston from Cambridge - J.Sobecki)

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

• Thomas Merton, “Thoughts in Solitude”

So the planned annual pilgrimage to the cathedral of number nine in the town that birthed a revolution brought the pilgrim up through the hills of the long tidal river. There ahead a cloud poured a continuous veil of tears as his vessel and companion passed through a black hole in the universe. The sound of anguished cries of mothers and angels could be heard in the rain . No words were necessary as they reverently passed the sign that read “Newtown.” Silence. Prayers. After years of repeated passages their vessel and hearts knew this path perfectly to their Jerusalem but now they were aware of how their journey and nothing would ever be the same. 

Just months previously that great storm of the century seemed to be the first ominous sign of that the universe was turning upside down as it battered their shores of their childhood. Memories were washed away to sea. The boss’s prophetic premonition lament of the light shining on the stranded stony faces on the shore should have warned them. Dreams and homes covered by soft-yellowed sand and water logged flotsam and jetsam saw hand holding families bowing heads bidding goodbye from the new shoreline while attempting to rekindle the flame of faith and hope. They will rebuild.

Then as he neared his Jerusalem, with great expectation of redemption and deliverance, he crossed over into the town that had become his adopted home. His welcome was celebrated like a Joycean wake mixed with the songs of freedom by ghosts of patriots . Constant solemn bells rang out in sacred remembrance for all the broken hearts and the heroes. To him it was and is personal. He and the co-sojourner family pausing their moveable feast softly somberly joined the ever echoing voices of marathoners and citizens in a reverential defiant chorus of “we are Boston Strong!” 

“Storms end, souls consoled and prayers are answered for those who believe” were words he recalled from a good book.

The prognosticators proven wrong, the rain ended and the sun broke through the clouds like the first morning. Sitting within a tearful cry from where a young man on the job in training had his life stolen by the sons of Satan, he sat in silence watching the Charles flow. His heart moved by the perpetual flow , the river of freedom – the gift of living in present with his family; the gift to love and being loved, and the gift of hopes and dreams.

                                                                                             (J. Sobecki)

(Lindsay Malone)

(Lindsay Malone)

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amdg

" The Present "

 The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it. (21)” 

― Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life

Ever have one of those days? You know what I mean. You go to make a nice fresh pot of coffee and that new super-duper digital self-timing self-measuring alarm clock radioed CD playing coffee maker won’t turn on. Suddenly you are forced to boil water over the stove because the microwave is set permanently to “thaw” and won’t boil water in a nanosecond. It takes a few frustrating minutes to rummage through the overstocked food cabinet to find that “New improved tastes like beans” instant coffee you bought months ago. Voila, persistence pays off as you find the package only to realize it is hardened and you have to chip away at the newly formed brick to make flakes to drop in your about to be boiled water.

 Finally you go to sit outside on the deck to witness the peace-filled dawn and there on your favorite most comfortable outdoor chair is a fresh welcoming pile of bird poop. You angrily grab a stiff wooden hard backed chair from inside the kitchen, sit perfectly up right and begin to record your morning observations in your journal. Opening the black book you see all the pages are full and that note that you had written that said,“ get a new journal,” slips gently from the inner pages of the book.

Sitting still you try to be present. Breathing deeply. Taking more breaths, in and out, in and out. Relaxed you forget to grasp the boiling hot mud-filled coffee mug on your lap and it spills probably scarring you for life. Rather than giving out that outlandish screech a perfectly fouled mouth curse slips out from under your breath. Retreating inside after you are done wiping and cleaning up much of the staining coffee you decide that sitting at the computer seems to be the perfect way to save the morning. Recording your thoughts and events so far on a hard drive will preserve this moment forever. No filled pages to worry about. You pop open the screen from our laptop to witness a rainbow ball spinning, spinning and spinning.

Recalling with arrogant pride your well-trained techno savvy cleverness you immediately reboot the computer. Again... Again. The ball still spins and spins and seems to spin faster and faster and finally the screen is blank. For some reason this box of electronic wizardry refuses your firm finger poking “command” to come back to life. CPR for laptops is a myth. For a split second tossing this useless “ piece of s *&%$” out the window seems like a way to get relief.

“But there are so many memories locked inside her. Maybe I can find a hard drive Dr. Frankenstein who can give her life again.”

Recalling that the TV cable connection is out from the storms two days ago. It has stormed a lot lately. Some trees have fallen but birds still sing and greet each day from the branches of the trees that still stand . So watching failed actors masquerading as television journalists to get their pre-adolescent versions and uneducated opinions of what is news and why is not an option now. You stumble your way to the front door for that trusted black and white solution. Opening the door it becomes evident that the paperboy has again skillfully tossed the morning newspaper to be visibly lodged in the upper third of your front lawn 50 foot oak tree.

“Gotta give that kid credit. He has a great arm.”

Frustratingly closing the door inner strength is gained to glance up the stairs to head back to where you started, and there stands that full smiling floppy eared golden hair shedding canine companion.  His happy tail wags feverishly. He pants over and over and over now sitting patiently awaiting your strides up the stairs so he can burst up jumping as you reach the final step with his fore paws onto your drained slumping shoulders.

Upon reaching that top stair the companion reacts precisely as you expected. Bracing yourself in advance you hold out your arms to welcome him. Luckily he is not a slobbering kisser like some dogs in the neighborhood. He jumps and wrestles you to the ground. Exhausted from the trials of the morning you lie there and your pal just lies next to you. Somehow in the middle of all the excitement he snatched up that funny little furry stuffed whatchamacallit into his mouth and presents it into your face and drops it.

“Let’s play!” he says in his way. He is ready to go.

His sleeping late has helped him conserve all the energy he has. Surprising him you hold onto him firmly with a big hug for a second. Thinking you are ready to play he jumps up, almost breaking your nose, and leans back with fore legs down and that big silly panting smile.

He aggressively wrestles the slobber-coated stuffed toy from your hands and with the wag of a tail he his gone as if to say “Come on, chase me!” You wonder if he realizes that the root of those aches and burning pains that kept him restlessly trying to get comfort on a cool soothing wood floor all night is the cancer that slowly eats away at his insides and how it will never go away.

Remembrance of the early morning trifles evaporates as you become grateful for becoming present to all that matters… now. Smiling you jump after your companion …. and finally the day begins.

                                                              ( for my Otis Redding)

amdg

Will The Circle Be Unbroken?

"The trouble is, you think you have time."  

                           – Buddha

( another real problem is that this month there seemed to be so much to write about  -- and so little time...here is one take.)

________________________________

Two singers casually debated

 “Is melancholy a bad thing?”  said the first

“It is cathartic” The older second one chimed .

“Nostalgia is another matter” added the first and the two nodded in agreement.

The pilgrim’s heart cried out to the two talking heads on the screen,

“You are both confused!“   

"He silenced his voice as he questioned his own memory. Before he could conjure courage to continue the challenge the conversationalists had removed themselves to the stage harmonizing about fields of gold and resting high on a mountains. The pilgrim listened as the crumpled letter written in gratitude filled with a veil of tears and bleeding words fell floating in slow motion to the ground. The report of how one of the original posse called “the Wanderers” had gone home having his ticket punched to Pleasant Stream .

“No time to grieve about that now” the pilgrim thought. He packed his bags to journey to say farewell to the one mater while wondering if she was welcoming his youthful companion in crime.

The sun still rose, no clouds just a crystal blue canopy , the birds sang and the rivers continued to flow to the sea. The recollections of what once was were fueled the redemptive silent flame . Endings were coming faster than expected. The lost moments of smiles outnumbered the regrets. His salvation history had another chapter completed.

Whispering with eyes closed his thanksgiving meditation closed with,

“Two more saints to pray to today.”

________________________________________________________________________

Repast

Faces wrinkled and bent bodies seek

Searching for words as myths are born.

Prayers of the pastoral presider sooth slightly

but cannot resolve the great mystery.

Reality polished as tears fall and smiles half –fabricated fill

the reunion of lost souls where memories are attempted to celebrate.

But the truth is buried.

Children, now women weep at the father’s vulnerability.

 Dionysian delights cannot drown the sorrow

As the great absence grows more evident .

All present hunger to be nourished by something

More satisfying than that which is on the menu for the day.

                             - JF Sobecki

News of Death

Last night they came with news of death
not knowing what I would say.

I wanted to say,
“The apple blossom flakes like ash
covering the orchard wall.”

I wanted to say,
“The fish float belly up in the slow stream,
stepping stones to the dead.”

They asked if I would sleep that night.
I said I did not know.

for this loss I could not speak,

the tongue lay idle in a great darkness,
the heart was strangely open,
the moon had gone,
and it was then
when I said, “He is no longer here”

“He is no longer here”
that the night put its arm around me
and all the white stars turned bitter with grief.

~ David Whyte

A Hard Life with Memory

I'm a poor audience for my memory.

She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,

but I fidget, fuss,

listen and don't,

step out, come back, then leave again.

She wants all my time and attention.

She's got no problem when I sleep.

The day's a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,

stirs up events both important and un-,

turns my eyes to overlooked views,

peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I'm always younger.

Which is nice, but why always the same story.

Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.

And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,

weighty, but easily forgotten.

Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.

Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.

Ideally in a dark, locked room,

but my plans still feature today's sun,

clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

At times I get fed up with her.

I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.

Then she smiles at me with pity,

since she knows it would be the end of me too.

                -  by Wislawa Szymborska

(translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)

“Death is not the last sleep. It is the final awakening.”

-       Walter Scott,

Remember Boston ! 

amdg